Give Your Thanks and join the fray
by Leni
Summary: Boston'verse see profile . It’s Thanksgiving ’08. Buffy and Angel celebrate their first holiday as an official couple – or at least, they try to.


**RATING:** R  
**SUMMARY:** It's Thanksgiving '08. Buffy and Angel celebrate their first holiday as an official couple – or at least, they try to. WIP.  
**Notes:** Part of **Boston'verse **(see author profile - long story short, expect B/A and Dawn&Spike.) Set roughly two years after '_Agape_' and some months before '_Knowing Everything (Too Much)_'.  
**THANK YOU:** to Sharon, Kairos, and Ares, without whom the pov would jump more than the plot-bunny that started this, the semi-colons would rise and conquer, and you'd trip and fall into a plot hole or two. Not to mention the grammar and spelling. *loves beta-readers*  
**FEEDBACK:** Loved. Printed. And taped to the wall next to my computer while I finish this story.

_Written for **iwry_marathon**_

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**GIVE YOUR THANKS (AND JOIN THE FRAY)  
prologue  
**_by Leni_

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"We shouldn't have done that." Angel would have sounded more convincing if his left hand wasn't sweeping along her hip, skimming the edge of her buttocks a little lower with each pass. Or if he wasn't still holding her against him, right arm curved below her breasts. "We'll run out of hot water."

Buffy threw her head back to rest it against his collarbone. "It's your own fault." She managed to inject some wryness in her tone, when in fact her thoughts were drifting to a hazy self-congratulatory hurrah for having decided to let her hair grow out again. It felt delicious trapped between her back and his chest, a different texture teasing her with every movement. Certain that he'd keep both of them upright, she set out to experiment further, rising on her toes and letting out a satisfied smile when the movement shifted the sensory pattern along her spine and mixed it with the already familiar feeling of his smooth skin. "Oh yeah. I'm good."

"So I'm the bad one?" He kissed the tip of her ear before she could answer him. "How is it that I'm at fault when you're the one who invaded my shower?"

Oh, right. She'd been teasing him. Still on her tiptoes, Buffy stretched so her fingers could tug on his hair. "You were taking too long."

He leaned into her touch, and accommodated their new position by letting his left hand wander across her body to her waist. "You have a curious notion of time when you're waiting," he laughed. "I'd say I've been here twice as long since you came in." It was too affectionate a comment to be a reproach, and if the teasing twist of her nipples was punishment, Buffy had wasted too many hours of good behavior on him. "Did you at least get a good wash before you… pounced?"

She wouldn't debate the term. It was a good description of her actions when Angel had refused to leave the shower. But, since his defense technique had been limited to bringing her closer and licking her neck, Buffy suspected there'd been a plan in motion. Between the two of them, he'd always been the better strategist; she was starting to appreciate how he used his talents outside the battleground. Such good, good talents, she thought as she tapped her fingernails against the bone of the wrist holding her. "I'm all clean, yes." When his hand abandoned her breasts to travel up her throat, Buffy maneuvered so his knuckles brushed her lips. "Close to godliness, really," she whispered before nipping his finger. "But I seem to have missed the shampooing part." She planted her feet back on the shower floor, glad that the water was still warm. He waited a second for her to secure her balance, and let go – moving on to rub his hands along her arms. Buffy responded by lifting one foot so her toes wandered up his ankle and shin. "Got distracted." At least this time she'd remembered to close the bottle lid. Last time they'd ended in an orange bubbly mess that smelled like pomegranate. Which would have been an amusing anecdote, if their informant that night hadn't taken a blatant sniff at them and started laughing in their faces.

But back to the matter – or vampire – at hand…. "Wanna help?"

Angel kissed her shoulder. "And then you'll let me go?"

"You wanted to stay," she reminded him, adding a pout.

"You were promising to make it worth my while," he laughed, then let go of her and stepped away to rescue the shampoo bottle from the opposite corner.

Buffy forced her eyes away from the appealing view. "I never said a word."

Angel looked over his shoulder, busy pouring the red liquid into his palm. "You didn't need to."

She knew she was grinning back. To stop herself from leaping toward him again – and probably leaving them with a strawberry scented memento for the next forty hours – she turned on the shower, just enough to soak in the hot water without splashing him.

"That's why."

Buffy blinked against the water. Angel was a blurry figure until she rubbed her eyes again. "Why what?"

"Why we shouldn't spend so long in here. It'll take hours before we have hot water again," he said. "You realize that once the girls come -" That was when he lifted his shoulders. Nice, big, strong shoulders…. They always felt so good under her hands. Rubbing. Caressing. Massaging…. Buffy wondered if she should have turned on the cold water instead. The smirk that appeared on his face said that he was reading her mind. "Are you listening to me?"

No. "Hair!" She had the feeling the reminder served her more than him. "I want clean hair. Because it's Thanksgiving and we have guests and…." Why hadn't she noticed his hair was wet, too? A small drop was falling down his temple, mimicking the path of a sweat drop. What would it take to make Angel sweat? "Hair. _Now._" Buffy shut off the water and closed her eyes, telling herself it was so no stray bits of shampoo would make them sting. It had nothing to do with the vampire she could hear coming closer. Nothing at all with the weight of his hand on her shoulder as he entreated her to spin around, nor the sensation of his fingers as they finally drifted into her hair.

When she'd been younger, in those few months they'd had as a couple between That Birthday and his departure, Buffy had discovered a few dozen ways to achieve some measure of intimacy without being intimate. Back then, she'd been proud of her resourcefulness. Not-too-happy tricks, she'd named them as she shared some with a wide-eyed Willow. Later, when Angel left despite all her efforts, she'd called herself an unrealistic fool. Of course little things like taking naps together or exchanging happy childhood memories couldn't keep two people together; they'd been silly desperate attempts by a school girl. Later still, after the honeymoon phase with Riley was over, she'd more or less panicked when he attempted any of those things. In her mind, details like indoor picnics or poetry reading by the fireplace were sure signs of doom for a relationship.

It would be years until – an evening she woke up still achy and moody after an unsuccessful hunt through L.A. sewers, with Angel wordlessly picking up her hairbrush to work out the tangles in her hair (something he hadn't done so in oh so long) – that the correct name came to her: romantic gestures.

No wonder her relationships had crashed, when she hadn't grasped such a basic concept.

"Am I pulling too hard?"

Angel's voice brought her back to the present. His fingers were working the lather along her scalp, and she'd been frowning. "No." She smoothed her features. "You're perfect." '_It's perfect_', she'd meant; but she didn't correct her statement. "Drifted off for a sec. Sorry."

"It's okay." He applied some pressure to the back of her head, and she obediently tipped it forward, leaving him full access to her nape.

She spent the next few minutes caught between a thorough soothing massage that languidly made its way back to her temples and behind her ears, and the growing desire to reach for him and, well, _pounce_.

"Almost finished," he told her.

Buffy focused on the squishy feeling of lukewarm soapy water running through her toes when she curled them against the floor tiles. She let out a long breath when his hands paused and ran down her hair one last time. Angel shifted behind her, and she felt him raise one hand to unhook the shower head. Eyes still closed, she tilted her head back so the suds at her hairline would wash away first, then let him do as he wished.

"There," he announced once her hair had been rinsed.

Bubbly patches floated around her ankles, tickling her skin as they headed to the drain. Angel was quietly placing the shower head back, so she took the chance to sneak her arms around his back and blindly step forward until she could burrow her nose into his chest. The scent of sandalwood soap, fresh on his skin, enveloped her. "You feel warm."

"With all the steam around us, I'm surprised I'm not cooked," he chuckled, but brought his hands to the small of her back.

"Sh. Don't say the c-word." She would have pouted if her lips weren't busy drawing zig-zag lines across his Adam's apple. "I'm still not over losing the battle against Practice Turkey." Her hands reached up to cup the shoulders she'd admired minutes ago, sinking her fingers into the taut muscles. "Besides, I'm trying to cajole you into sex."

"I noticed." His left hand trailed down her hair until it caught one thin strand. "Not that I'm complaining, but why the enthusiasm?" He started twirling the long hair around his finger. Buffy pressed herself closer, moving one hand down his side. A soft sound at the back of his throat indicated approval at the destination of that hand. "A good dream, perhaps?" The hand at her back started a lethargic movement along her spine. "Because I can get to like these dreams of yours. Much better than the average package."

Buffy let him go and, to his obvious consternation, stepped back.

She could have told him that Dawn had promised to stay over the weekend, and that having her little sister a room away all but banished any lustful thoughts she might have. Call her irrational, but as far as Buffy was concerned, Dawn and sex lived in different dimensions. Angel may not have batted an eye when Connor told them about his live-in girlfriend, but if Buffy got her way, Dawn wasn't having sex until she was fifty – and then only over the 'net.

She could have told him that Willow's presence would put a further damper on her libido. Ever since she and Angel had announced their renewed relationship, everyone who'd survived the Sunnydale fall of '97 tensed when they so much as kissed. Her best friend might be more subtle than to carry an Orb of Thesulah in her bag, but Buffy was sure that a handy spell to call in the ingredients for a soul-party had been found and memorized.

In short, she could have told Angel that this was their last chance to enjoy the physical side of their relationship until the next week, but that would probably put a damper on _his_ libido. Buffy in no way wanted to risk that. So she tilted her head to the left, baring the side of her neck which still carried a trace of an old scar, and brought her hands from between her thighs up to caress that slightly darker patch of skin.

"Cajoling," – she pointed to herself. Then her index finger turned towards him: "Shutting up."

So her strategies lacked refinement.

They could discuss it at a later date if he had any complaints.

In fact, she thought blissfully as Angel pushed her back against the wall and hoisted her up with one hand at her rear, they could discuss it much _much_ later.

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From her bedroom window, Cielo Mershmeier, née Moreno, could see the park across the street. It was her source of entertainment on quiet mornings like this. Ever since her oldest granddaughter had declared her music system outdated ("Oh, Nana. They don't make these anymore!" the girl had wailed, such a distressed expression on her face that Cielo, ever the doting grandmother, had allowed her to replace her old cassettes with CDs and DVDs and what not), Cielo had found that decades of listening to her favorite songs in a particular order had left her unable to enjoy the change.

She hadn't told Sabrina, of course not. The girl had meant well.

But now she preferred to sit by her vanity table and watch her neighbors walk about, guessing how much their personal lives reflected their daily habits (like poor Mrs. Carter, from around the corner. For five days she'd trailed behind during the morning jogging she and her best friends did, and yesterday Cielo had found out that the youngest Carter girl had been readmitted to an addiction center. Why, that girl couldn't be older than Sabrina!).

Today, only the most stubborn had decided to face the uncooperative early morning weather and headed outside. There was the Lanes' newest nanny, the one who'd surpassed all her predecessors and survived the month with the Lanes' middle twins. Cielo thought to herself that the clever woman had found out that the recipe for a quiet morning at home – the Lanes home-schooled their five children – was to allow the boys half an hour of running, climbing and general mayhem every day. Today they'd brought a ball with them, and their older brother was playing goalie against both one-man 'teams' with the twins announcing the score to the whole neighborhood with every goal.

Cielo watched them for a long time, shaking her head in amusement as the three boys debated whether a play was valid or not. The oldest one, apparently fed up by his brothers' noisiness, stalked out to join their nanny and their sisters and fished out some earphones from his jacket. Cielo gave a little sigh at the sight. Kids grew up too quickly nowadays.

After that, it wasn't long until the group of six picked up dolls and ball and headed back to the smaller blue house in the next block. How they could fit eight people – nine if you counted the maid, but she didn't sleep there – was something Cielo could never figure out. She remembered her own house being crowded when her three children had been little, what with Carolina and Marcus chasing each other over some broken toy or another, and Johan running up and down the stairs as many times as possible from the time he learned to walk until he moved out a married man. "He still doesn't know how to stay quiet. I think poor Rosa has threatened him with a straitjacket if he won't stay for tonight's dinner. Can you believe it?" She didn't wait for an answer. "It might have done some good when he was ten, and Mrs…. Was it Green? Yes, Mrs. Green threatened to keep him back a year if he didn't shape up." She smiled and picked up a pot of skin cream. "But shape up he did." Two fingers dipped into the almond colored mixture, and she coated her forehead and the bridge of her nose with it. "Clever man, our Johan. He fits so well in the world he chose, too."

There was no reaction.

"He does, Robert. Even if it isn't the world you'd have chosen for him." The pot was already closed and in its place by the time she was finished. An admittance that she was right. "I'm sure Rosa's exaggerating. What kind of husband would miss Thanksgiving dinner?"

As she waited for the cream to take effect, she looked out the window again, and smiled. On the bench closest to the sidewalk, two men took turns with different sections of the newspaper. "It's been twenty years and those old fools are still saving for their boat, one newspaper at a time." She snickered quietly, then realized her husband's old golf club friends couldn't hear her. "Probably wouldn't be able to, even if I was sitting between them, right there on that bench," she said, voice loud and clear. "I should invite them for dinner, one of these days."

Metal clashed against metal as the window closed with a bang. The latch fell into place with a sharp _snikt_.

Cielo laughed. "Now, now. No need to be jealous, _amor_." She put her right hand on the armrest of her plush chair, meaning to rise to reopen the window. But a soft push sent her back into her seat. "Robert," she warned.

The window slowly creaked open and a pale pink rose floated up through the open space and drifted down into her lap. "Thank you, dear." She picked up the flower and bent slightly to smell its soft petals, careful not to smear the edges against her face cream. "Apology accepted."

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**TBC...**


End file.
